Unicorn Girl, Shadow Self

She sang like a flower
a flower made of song
delicate and desperate
perfume so sweet, so loud
petals in sound moved by a honey wind

Her throat long, reed thin, fur-trimmed
tender as a leafy stem, lifted up
head to the sky
lips part into half a kiss
ripe pink and open to sing

She cried like a sword
a sword made of feather
whispering and whirring
too soft to slice, so silent
pieces of fluff scattered in the cold wind

Her single horn, curved and like a sliver
pointed out of her head, a headache
silver bone so sharp, so high
eyes part open in longing
blue-black and starring
long lashes daring and darling

She is held without being touched
kept hidden in forgotten pockets
deep inside the dark womb of things
curled up like the dead spider
in dusty remains on the window sill
abandoned by the summer shine
carried without being lifted
safe in the little places
the corners of the closet
in between shoes and old clothes
you know the ones
you never worn or gave away

She’s in the lint
in the dust bunnies
the dried mud
in smudges on glass
in fingerprints on the wall
in all the traces you ignore
because there is something always
more important to do, to see, to make…

She is a flower trampled
stuck in between the pages of a book
the book you’d never thought you would forget to read
She sang like flower was made of song
perfume old and stale, but still lingered sweet
loud in the silence of death
so still, fuzz-trimmed, and paper thin
her spine a stick bent up to the sky
lips frozen, half open
parted dark pink in her last song

The song you didn’t let her sing.


3 thoughts on “Unicorn Girl, Shadow Self

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